A Song of Unended Years-The Lay of The Dagor Dagorath
by Gallifreyman
Summary: Here is told in full the first portion of the tale of the second coming of Túrin son of Hurin, the fall of Arda and the Powers of the Valar, the return of Morgoth Bauglir, who was Melkor, and his contemporary Sauron of Mordor, to the realms of Middle-Earth, the Battle of Lorien and the Fall of Ulmo, and the events that came after, being the Final Doom of the Creation of Illuvatar.
1. Mormegil I

**So. This is my first real attempt at an epic story spanning multiple characters, so forgive me if I slip up anywhere. If you notice any mistakes in the text, inform me in the comments. The Silmarillion, the Lord of the Rings, and The Hobbit are the property of The Tolkien Estate and New Line Cinema, and not my own.**

* * *

_**And so it came to pass, that in the final days of the World, which was Arda, the ancient dead again rose and lived and breathed, and the legends of Elder Days again walked the world. And the shadow was reborn anew, and the Powers of the Valar failed them, and the world was torn asunder in the Dagor Dagorath, the Battle of Battles. This is the tale of that ending, or rather, the Beginning of the Ending of Endings. Here shall be told in full The Second Doom of **_**_Túrin son of Hurin, who named himself Turambar, that is, "Master of Fate", the Fall of the Valar, that were the Powers of the World Under Eru, and the Coming of the End to Arda._**

* * *

_Valinor, The Council of the Valar._

The light of the ever-radiant sun beamed through the ornate windows of the mighty Hall, fracturing and splitting into a million fragments of radiant multicolored sunbeams as it passed through the diamond windows. The Great Hall lay illuminated, and light shone at every corner of the vast, colossal dome. The floor shimmered with unearthly beauty, and the walls were decorated with beautiful friezes decorating the History of Arda and all the lands within. In the center of the room were arranged fourteen seats, adorned with jewels and crystals mighty, words of power carved upon them.

And upon each of the seats sat one of the Valar, the powers of the world. Ulmo, Lord of the Waters and the Seas, sat upon his sea-green throne, arrayed in robes of blue, his dark, stormy eyes glinting with the untold might of the waves. Yavanna, Queen of the Trees, lay sprawled upon a mighty carved wooden seat, clad in robes of green and white. And at the epicenter of the circle, facing the mighty doors of the hall, at Manwe, Lord of Eagles, King of the Valar and Master of the Skies. Terrible and beautiful all at once they seemed, and the power of all the fourteen, gathered there in that place, seemed to make the very air quiver with awe.

But one was missing. One seat stood empty, ebony black, like carven night, but beautiful too, with the promise of things to come. The throne of Mandos, Speaker of Doom.

And then, with a clamor like the rolling of thunder, the doors burst open. A figure stumbled in, haggard and broken. Dust and mud coated what had once been fine, beautiful robes, and fell off in clumps, marring the beauty of the hall. Baleful grey eyes peeked up from under matted black hair, and a mighty knotted black beard dropped down to the ground. Behind the man, striding in slowly, his simple red and grey robes a contrast to the fine raiment of the all the other Vala save Aule, who was clad in a smith's grimy robes, came Mandos, Lord of Doom. His eyes, stern and pitiless, pushed the cringing man forward.

In a voice like stone breaking on steel, he spoke. "Tell them your name."

The haggard man began to laugh, his crackling giggles echoing in the palatial hall. Through the mad giggles he spoke. "Why should I? So you can laugh in my face and mock me, and make me like the fool? Or would mighty king Manwe and his cronies have pity on me? Let me kneel and redeem myself?" He spat a curse in a long-dead language, spittle flying from his lips as he surged forth with strength unknown, to land before the throne of Manwe. He pulled himself to his feet, his ruined clothing a pitiful sight before the radiance of the King of the Valar. The man staggered, and his eyes fixed upon Manwe's. With a ragged breath, he drew close to Manwe's face and, in a voice dripping with sarcasm and proud defiance, he whispered, his foul breath beating in Manwe's unflinching face.

"My name is Ar-Pharazon, and I am The Golden, King of Men and Lord of Numenor, The Golden Kingdom. And even here, in thy hall, you hold no sway over me, Lord of breezes and dust, master of _birds_!" His voice rose to a fitful tempo, and at the last, he fell back, as if pushed by some unknown power. On the far side of the circle, Aule rose, grasping for his hammer at his side.

"You would speak so to one of the Vala-"

"Calm." The word radiated through the Hall, and Aule slumped back into his throne, his rage quelled, as Manwe in turn rose from his seat, stepping over the giggling form of the last King of Numenor, and walked to Mandos, who stood in the centre of the circle formed by the Valar's thrones.

"He is not supposed to wake. Not yet." The words were simple, yet conveyed meaning so profound the earth seemed to shudder.

"And yet he does. And yet, my Halls are _empty._" said Mandos, his voice echoing with finality.

"Empty?" Rang a voice from the ring of thrones. Varda cocked her head at Manwe, her purple robes falling about her as her gleaming eyes locked with Mandos' own. "But the time is not yet come. The Dagor Dagorath-"

"Is countless eons beyond. So it was written in Music. So Eru Illuvatar wills it. So _it should be._" interrupted Mandos. "And yet. It is not."

"How can this be? Arda shall not end for eons to come." spoke Manwe as he turned to study the prone body of Ar-Pharazon, who still laughed to himself in his madness.

"Yet, it is ending. My Halls are filled with silence. Darkness lies in Valinor, I cannot see what comes next, nor feel the Will of Eru, and beyond the Shadow and the Void..._he_ is stirring."

A voice like birdsong rang through the air. "This is not the Will of Eru. It cannot be. The world is yet young, the Powers are not yet weary, and the guard does not sleep. All I have made-all we have made, all Eru has made...it cannot end so young. " Yavanna spoke, and her tone was anxious and troubled. A murmur of assent spread through the Hall.

Mandos broke the troubling silence, his voice hewing the air like cold steel. "Little can I see beyond shadow, but what I do see is troubling." The murmuring stopped. The air grew tense, and even mad Ar-Pharazon stopped his laughing. Mandos was speaking a Doom.

"The Realm that was lost shall rise again, and the Arkenstone returned to it's Master. When the Ringbearer wakes, The Blacksword shall fall before the Mount of Doom, and the Helm of Dor-Lomin be lost in the flames that birthed and ended The One Ring, and Túrin will pass from Arda. Where the stars meet the earth, and the ground grows black with death and red with blood, shall the fate of a Silmaril be chosen. Twice shall the love of his heart of hearts call, but once will he answer, and only once, and then his fate is decided, and he must die. Ancalagon the Black will wake again, and the doom that he shall write will be burned upon Arda forevermore.

Beyond this, I see flames, and shadows unnumbered, and the waking of an evil long forgotten. And a Vala...a Vala must fall, and be lost forever, beyond the reach of all save Eru, and die true death."

And silence fell upon the Hall of the Valar, and so was spoken the Third and Final Doom and Mandos, and begun, without warning or heraldry, the Dagor Dagorath, the Battle of Battles, called by some The Doom of Gods and Men, Ragnarok in the tongues of old. And so was begun the beginning of the End of Arda, and the Creation of Illuvatar was entered unto it's final Doom and End.

* * *

_Mormegil I_

He opened his eyes. He was lying in a field, a meadow of lush, sunkissed green grass, one that stretched on to the edges of the horizon. Everything felt peaceful, so very peaceful. A feeling of bliss seemed to hang over him, though where it came from, he could not say. Better than what came before. Better than the darkness, the darkness he could not remember, and the nightmares he could not see, and the shadows that seemed to consume his very being. With a frightened gasp, he passed back into sleep. Long he struggled there, in shadow, without yet a glimpse of light.

When he opened his eyes again, it was night. The light of the moon was began to rise, and the Sickle of the Valar hung shining against the black field of the night sky. His eyes tracked the moon's slow progress as he lay in the dark green grass of the meadow, gazing up at the twinkling stars. He had not seen them for centuries, for ages uncounted, yet how he knew this, he did not know. He knew nothing, now that he reflected on it. But for some reason unknown to him, he was not alarmed. He had no name, yet he was happy. The elves would have called him-elves? Did he know elves?

This led him back on a meandering, lazy train of thought, and then onto another, but his thought returned ever back to his memory. Who was he, indeed?

With that, his bliss was passed, and he pulled himself into a crouch, gazing at the grass around him, the slight breeze in his face. It was all so...beautiful. He blinked out of his slight stupor and rose again to his feet. With surprise, he noted his dark brown cloak and dark green tunic, ringed with fine mail, for he remembered being unclothed when first he woke. At his hilt hung an empty leather scabbard, and at the edges of his vision, he saw his dark black hair, which fell almost to his waist, as if it had not been cut for years. Around him, the field spread on, in the distance rising into mighty rolling hills. He began to start towards them, but before he had taken more than a few steps, he felt some unnamed force calling him back, pulling him whence he had come.

In the light of the moon, he glimpsed something in the dark, among the grasses, and stooped. Squinting, he reached forward and picked it up. A sword. His hand slipped into groves worn by fingers-_his fingers_-into the hilt long ago, almost instinctively. With a single, fluid movement, he rose from the grasses and held the sword to the sky, craning his neck to see along it's length. The blade seemed to him darker than the night sky, and cold and dark. Black it was, black as night.

Revulsion filled him, bile rising in his throat, though he knew not why. He staggered, and his eyes filled with tears, tears for Nienel, for-_Nienel_? He stumbled again, and the sword seemed to speak to him, calling to him like a master to his thrall. With a shudder, he moved to put the sword down, but his arm, as if by some will of it's own, moved elsewhere, slipping it into the empty scabbard like water into a glass. With a groan of pain, he fell to his knees. Darkness filled his vision, and he collapsed.

* * *

With a shout, he woke. The dragon, the dragon was coming, he had to warn them-_dragon? Warn who? _He was on a small bed, wrapped in sheets and cloths. He was sat in a small room, with a ceiling a few inches above his head. A cupboard sat near a small round door on the far side of the room, and his black sword-his now, this he knew, for some unfathomable reason-and his clothing lay in it. Save for that, he was alone. The first rays of the early morning sun streamed through the windows.

Suddenly, the door broke open, and a small figure broke in.

"Mama! Papa! He's awake!" The cheerful voice cried jubilantly. The small girl, for a girl it was ran over to him.

"You're so big! Are you a Man? From Gondor?" A thought caught the little girl's mind, and she squealed. "Are you Elessar, like in Papa's stories?" She began poke and prod him, and he smiled. Her hair was fair, and her face though young, was radiant with childlike beauty.

"No, little one. I'm not from...Gondor, was it?"

The girl pouted then looked up, smiling again. "That's OK! What's your name?" She stopped, then looked down, abashed. "Sorry. I fer'got my manners. I'm Elanor. Who're you?"

He tried not to smile wider, but could not help it. He reached out a hand and patted her on the head, his massive hand seeming to envelop her tiny head. "I am..."

_Wronged. Lost. Betrayed. Cursed._

"...I was called Neithan. Yes. Neithan is my name."

She smiled, and opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, a voice called from the doorway.

"Elanor! Come here."

The little girl waved bye to Neithan, then turned and ran to the arms of the short man in the doorway, who Neithan turned to face. He was short, like the girl, but seemed somehow to be in the prime of adulthood, and seemed of stature to a dwarf. He had light blonde hair, like the girl, and his eyes were set and firm, like one who has seen much they would rather have not.

"Welcome, then, whoever you are." said the short man. "I was rather hoping to be there when a woke up, but a guess little Elanor here is all the welcoming party you've got." The little girl grinned mischievously.

Neithan looked around him for a moment, collecting his wits, then spoke.

"My...My name is Neithan. I think. I don't remember much these days. Much of anything."

A shadow fell over the short man's face. "Another one, I s'ppose. Cor, and you have no idea who y'are, right?"

Neithan nodded, confused.

"Thought as much." the man said. He walked over to the bed and held out a short, stumpy hand.

"Th' name's Sam. Samwise Gamgee. Let's get you up off that bed and get some food in your belly." The man said with a smile.

"Neithan. Of...of Amon Rudh." he said, and clasped Sam's hand in his own.


	2. Mormegil II

_**And so it came to pass, that in the final days of the World, which was Arda, the ancient dead again rose and lived and breathed, and the legends of Elder Days again walked the world. And the shadow was reborn anew, and the Powers of the Valar failed them, and the world was torn asunder in the Dagor Dagorath, the Battle of Battles. This is the tale of that ending, or rather, the Beginning of the Ending of Endings. Here shall be told in full The Second Doom of **_**_Túrin son of Hurin, who named himself Turambar, that is, "Master of Fate", the Fall of the Valar, that were the Powers of the World Under Eru, and the Coming of the End to Arda._**

* * *

_Mormegil II_

* * *

The horse fidgeted as it trotted along the small muddy road. It's dark black fur seemed to blend with the night. A tall elf, his features sharp and defined, rode atop it, his pointed ears peaking out from under the hood of his black cloak. A wicked-looking sword hung from his waist, cold and black, like the touch of winter. With a hint of desperation, he sniffed the air. His quarry would not escape him, not again. A slow, sick smile spread across his face. He was here. His mission was at it's end, for now he had found him who was lost. His sword, too seemed to gleam with anticipation, for it sensed it's twin. With a flick of his wrist, he brought his steed to a stop before a small hill. for a minute he sat, alert, as if listening to the orders of some unknown master.

The elf spurred his horse to a light gallop, and soon it crested the hill, it's speed rising as it rode down into the farmlands of the Shire, bearing it's rider closer, ever closer, to his goal.

* * *

Neithan stooped, stepping under the small doorway with a hairbreadth to spare. He was dressed again in his simple tunic and cloak, and his hair was newly cut-cut, he had been told by the short man calling himself Sam, during his sleep. According to him, it had been a fortnight since he'd been found on the outskirts of The Shire. The Shire, which Neithan had never heard of. Not that he had heard of anyplace, to speak truth. He knew little beyond his own name, and even that was newly invented.

But he could feel memories drifting at the edge of his consciousness, as if hidden behind a veil. He caught flashing snippets, but they were of no use to him, merely fragments of of a shadow that flitted behind reality. A woman, screaming and sobbing in grief over the prone form of a man. A great battle, the screaming of men, and the flashing of swords. And a mighty bow, carved and black, that sent a pang of regret through his frame, for a reason that flitted beyond the veil as well, tempting him, calling him to the dark.

Neithan shook his head, as if to shake away the cobwebs of his own mind. He was aware of an insistent tugging on the sleeve of his tunic, and turned to see tiny Elanor, her curls bouncing up and down, with a radiant smile on her face.

"Come, come! I want you to meet Mama!" she said in a pleading tone, and he smiled at her quivering, as if she contained so much energy that it took supreme effort to remain even in that once place for a fraction of a second.

He nodded in assent, and she let out a shrill yelp of joy, and bounded down the hallway to his left, passing through another one of the small doors. He began to follow her, looking about him in amazement at the home. It, and everything in it, was miniaturized, as if built for a child. The house was a brilliant splash of cheerful greens and yellows, and the smell of tea and sweets seemed to hang in the air, evoking the thought of endless afternoons spent whiling away the time, countless, but wonderful days of simple carefree pleasures and pastimes.

After following the bouncing curls down countless doorways and halls, he emerged in a slightly larger room, one that allowed him to rise to almost his full height. Cupboards lined either side of the room, filled with ornate, carefully crafted dishes and bowls. In the center of the room was a large table, covered with an assortment of foods. Cakes, pies, sandwiches and countless other things. For the first time, he noticed a gnawing pain in his stomach. He had been without consciousness for two days, at least, and who knew how long he'd lain in that field?

His eyes rose from the meal set before him to the small woman at the head of the table. who was, even now, eying him with a look that seemed wary, but not altogether suspicious. She had bouncing curls, like Elanor, and was of the same height as Sam, or so he estimated. Her face was round and cheery, and her cheeks were rosy and plump.

He bowed slightly, stiffly, and spoke. "I..um..I am Neithan." He said nervously. The small woman's face broke into a smile and she waved at him with the ladle she held clutched in her hand.

"So you're the mysterious Man Elanor's been so keen on fussing about." She said with a playful smile.

He nodded stiffly, and she burst into laughter. "Don't stand there like I'm sort of queen, tho' Sam would have ya think otherwise! M'name's Rosie, and frankly, I would be insulted if you didn't sit down and help yourself to some of m' dinner."

And then the brief tension was gone, and he smiled, sitting down in one of the small chairs. He knew he must make a comedic sight, tall as he was, sitting in such a small chair, but he did not care. The house was warm, inviting, homely. Every curve and bend spoke of warmth and pleasure. With a slight smile, he began to eat.

* * *

It was maybe half an hour later when he came into the large, spacious main room, looking for Sam. The room was a mix of bright summerlike colors, like the rest of the house. It was possibly the largest in the entire house, for he could stand to his full height in it, which was mighty. There was a mighty grandfather clock opposite him, and the room was furnished with fine couches and sofas.

"Come, on then, have a seat." He turned to see Samwise sitting in a chair slightly out of his range of vision, smoking from a long grey pipe. The hobbit puffed a smoke ring, then turned to him, smiling.

"Have a seat, an' I'll answer the questions you probably have."

Self-consciously, Neithan slid into the small couch.

"Tell...tell me everything."

"Not much to tell. Ol'Tomin Took found you on his land, unconscious. You fell out of thin air, friend. We brought you here, and-"

"Where is _here_?" Neithan broke in.

"This is the Shire, the fairest land I've ever laid eyes upon, save one."

Neithan cocked his head. "What place is that, friend Sam?"

Sam's face turned wistful, and his eyes glazed, as if he was gazing into the distant past.

"The realm of the Elf-Lady Galadriel, Lothlorien. O', it was...beyond a simple Hobbit's words, if I say so myself. Trees like carven light, and the grass was like a thousand sunsets, and the waters and the streams clearer than air..." The hobbit paused, a look of bliss on his face. his mind somewhere far, far away.

Neithan smiled, the corners of his mouth twisting into what felt like an unfamiliar motion for the fourth time in as many minutes. "I knew a place like that once. Doriath, the realm of Thingol and his Lady. Oh, it..." He trailed off, the shard of memory lost.

Sam's attention snapped back to him, and a cloud fell upon his face, like the on Neithan had seen earlier.

"A memory, am I right? A memory you know, but can't remember. As if it's hidden behind a cloud?"

Neithan jumped, startled."Yes. Exactly like that. As if a veil had been pulled over my mind."

Sam sighed. "You're not the first. Don't worry. first thing tomorrow, I'll take you down to the-"

The sound of a trumpet brought Sam's sentence to an abrupt end. A horn, blowing again and again in warning, a signal of danger and doom.

_FEAR, FIRE, FOES! FEAR, FIRE, FOES!_

Sam sprang into action, faster than Neithan ever imagined the stout little hobbit moving. He pulled open a nearby closet, drawing out a shimmering grey cloak that he swung over his shoulders. It should have looked ridiculous ad out-of place on his short, brightly dressed frame, but it seemed to make him rise taller, and an air of strength seemed to settle over Neithan's newfound host. From the same closet, the hobbit withdrew a small dagger, ornately carved, small enough to serve as a sword for Sam, and a bigger blade, one that Niethen recognized upon sight. It was black, and cold, and even in it's scabbard, it gave him that odd feeling of being torn apart: it sent waves of revulsion down his spine, and yet called to him like a mother to a child.

"Here, I think you'll need this."

A hand that did not seem to be his reached out and grabbed the sword, fastening the scabbard to his waist with quick, deft movements that his mind did not will. It was automatic, like breathing, and fluid, like water.

After a second of dazed silence, he shook his head and turned to look for Sam. The large green door in front of him was open, and outside it he saw rolling hills, with what seemed to be homes built into them, beautiful fields and meadows, lovingly tended gardens and farms, and, in the distance, a beacon in the night, the orange dancing of fire.

* * *

Sam rushed through the fields towards the fire in the distance. On the way, he met several hobbits who were fleeing in a mad panic. Those he could talk to through the fear could only mumble panicked words about a shadow, a black shadow, killing and slaughtering, through the tears. Rage filled Sam, and fear, for the flames sent him back to a night long ago, very much like this one, when he and his dearest friend in the world had fled from living shadows, upon steeds of night.

But the Nazgul had feared fire, and they were gone now, gone with Sauron, gone with the Ring in Mordor, far, far away.

He drew the elf-sword and resumed his dash towards the fire. It seemed to be coming from Old Tomin's farm, where they had found Neithan. No coincidence could it be, but the hobbit hated to think of the alternatives. He steeled himself, holding back the panic that even now was welling up in his mind, and readied for the worst.

In the space of a few minutes, his legs carried him to the flames. Tomin Took's farm was ablaze, the barn and the home he had built with his own hands burning to cinders. Of the old farmer himself, there was no sign. From inside the barn, near the flames, there came a loud, piteous wail. Sam turned and sped off towards the barn. With a mighty leap, he bounded through the roaring, crackling flames.

Inside the barn, the stench of smoke and death permeated the air. Sweat ran down Sam's forehead in rivulets, and he held in sword in front of him, ready for any threat. He could make out a collapsed shape in the darkness, and warily, he drew closer. With horror, he realized it was Tomin Took, run through with a blade. Around him, his blood fizzled and vaporized in the heat of the flames. Holding back the bile and the tears, Sam backed away.

Near the back of the barn, a shadow seemed to melt from the flames. A black hood, and dark robes. Sam's heart thudded in his chest, and his will then seemed to abandon him. It was a Nazgul, a Nazgul. But with the light of the flames, he caught a glimpse of a curved elfin face beneath the hood. Courage again rising in his chest, he leveled the elf-blade at the black-clad Elf, who in turn, drew his own sword, a blade of unearthly steel, shining with malice, one that made Sam's blood run cold. But he again marshaled himself, and spoke his part:

"I am Samwise Gamgee, Hobbit of the Shire. I was a Bearer of the One Ring, and I have walked in Lorien and spoken to the Lady. You are an enemy of the Shire and a servant of the Shadow. I say to you now, stand back, for I will not let you pass me by!" spoke Sam in a stern, solemn voice, echoing the words of Gandalf in Moria long ago.

The elf burst into laughter, dark, mocking and cruel. "You would stand before me, halfing?! I am ancient! I am older than the oldest of your race. When your ancestors dug in the pits of the world, eating grubs and wriggling in mud, I walked the dark forests, and roamed the world in night!"

He thrust his hands out in a self-glorifying gesture. "I was Eol, The Dark Elf! I was wronged, betrayed. They took my bride, my son, and in the end, my life! And now, I can have my vengance. At last, after countless years, vengance. Where is the Mormegil, Halfing? Where is Turambar?!"

Sam set his face. He could only guess that the Elf sought after Neithan-the names he called him smacked of lore, of tales he had been told by Master Frodo long ago, but he could not call them up out of the halls of memory.

The Elf scoffed, and walked forward, raising his sword, which glinted hypnotically in the firelight. "So be it, halfling."

Sam raised his sword and prepared to fight, calling upon the memory of dark days in Mordor in long ago.

But as Eol's sword came down on it's swing, something, fast as wind and black as shadow, swing into it's path. And then night was filled with the shriek of starsteel on starsteel, as for the first time in over a thousand centuries, the twin blades clashed.

Neithan swung in front of Sam, leveling his sword at Eol. His eyes glinted with rage and fury, and a merciless bloodthirst Sam had not seen there before.

"I am Neithan, of Amon Rudh. Fight me, coward." With that, he swung his blade over his head, bringing it down to clash with Eol's in a wordless yell. And amid the flames, sister danced with sister as the Mormegil and the Dark Elf dueled before the last living Ringbearer.

"Ha!" Cried Eol. "You would name yourself the wronged, but I am more wronged than thou! My home, my wife, my blood! Taken from me, by the mighty Lord of Gondolin! But now, my master promises retribution for this, and more!"

But Neithan fought on, silent, his body flowing in time to a soundless rhythm, dancing the dance of the warrior, wielding his blade of black.

But Eol was no warrior, but a deciever and a liar. Feigning defeat, he slowly let Neithan back him into a corner, and, feinting, tossed a piece of burning wood at his opponent. The wood smacked him on the side of the head, sending him reeling backwards. Eol lunged in as if for the killing blow, but for the second time, another blade swung to intercept his.

Eol roared with frustration and turned to meet the new threat. Amid the inferno stood a Man, clutching a silver elven-make sword. He wore a golden tunic, embroidered with silver. His dark hair fell about his neck, and his sparkling blue eyes fixed on Eol. He spoke, in a voice like song.

"Back, Dark-Elf, before I strike you down."

Eol's eyes widened in disbelief. "You! Here?!"

The man emerged from the smoke, one hand holding his blade at Eol's chest, and his other arm hung limply at his side, ending in a stump.

"Back." It was finality, a statement with only one response.

Eol scowled, and with surprising speed, knocked away the man's sword and sprang into the shadow.

"I will return, for you, Mormegil, and those who stand beside you. The Master in the Void created all legends, and he can unmake them!"

With that, the Dark-Elf was gone.


	3. Erchamion I

_**And so it came to pass, that in the final days of the World, which was Arda, the ancient dead again rose and lived and breathed, and the legends of Elder Days again walked the world. And the shadow was reborn anew, and the Powers of the Valar failed them, and the world was torn asunder in the Dagor Dagorath, the Battle of Battles. This is the tale of that ending, or rather, the Beginning of the Ending of Endings. Here shall be told in full The Second Doom of **_**_Túrin son of Hurin, who named himself Turambar, that is, "Master of Fate", the Fall of the Valar, that were the Powers of the World Under Eru, and the Coming of the End to Arda._**

* * *

_Erchamion I_

* * *

The smell of smoke danced in the air, a smell of ashes and smog and destruction. The charred, ruined cinders of what had once been the barn of proud Tomin Took still smoked, a grey plume of ash rising into the air, visible, some said, from across the Water. It was no normal fire, the Hobbits of the Shire whispered amongst themselves, that had destroyed the old farmer's home and farm so quickly, no normal fire that left the earth rotted black like death. No normal fire left ash like that-thick and black, black like night, ash that did not move in the wind, but seemed to sink into the earth and corrupt it.

A tall man stood in the ruins of the barn. He was clad in shimmering raiment, clothing that seemed to fall around him like liquid, inlaid with runes and glyphs of dancing silver. His dark brown hair fell to his shoulders, framing his stoic face and the thin beard that framed it. A gleaming elven blade sat on his hip, it's naked steel dancing in the sunlight. The man stooped down and scooped up some of the ashes, bringing them up to his nose, then cast them aside.

Beren rose to his feet, looking around him at the ruins of the barn. He had come here hoping to find something, anything, that gave him answers. The hooded elf had known who he was-he was sure of it, and he had called the other Man names, strange names, names that danced on the fringes of Beren's memory. But there were no clues among the debris, only sorrow and death. Even his name, Beren, was an uncertainty, something he had plucked from beyond the veil of fragmented memories. He recognized nothing here though, nothing that might add to the few scarce dregs that he could pull from the darkness.

A name danced on the edges of his consciousness, a sliver of a memory, but that single sliver contained joy, a happiness and pleasure so great he fell to his knees among the ashes, groaning in agony at it's loss, the mere knowledge that once, he had known such utter bliss. A name rose unbidden, cast from beyond the murky veil.

_Luthien. _

As soon as the memory had come, it was gone, and he was left with the faint echo if it, and a purpose, one that kept being reinforced with every new memory that wandered out of the darkness. He had to find this Luthien. Luthien had answers, Luthien...Luthien was the answer. With a few rapid blinks, he cleared his mind. Rising to his feet and brushing the dust off of his knees, he turned south, towards the rolling hills of the Shire proper. The dancing green grass and calm, dancing air was so...peaceful. These Hobbits did not know war. They were people of a more peaceful time. A memory, not nearly as strong as the last, but still painful, fluttered through his mind. Alone, lost, in the dark. War, endless war, and flames spewing forth from the black mountain. Flame, sudden and unexpected, fire, deadly and wrathful. And loss.

With a grunt, Beren drew himself back to reality. Losing himself trying to remember the past would be useless. He pulled up the hood of his elven tunic and began walking towards the picturesque hills that rose and fell before him. His mind slowly drew to the only other clue to his existence-the man Neithan, called Mormegil and Turambar by the hooded Elf. The names...the names meant something, somewhere, in a language he knew, but did not. He knew their meanings, but they eluded him, hiding behind that same veil which frustrated him.

Beren realized with some surprise that he had been gripping the hilt of his strange sword with frightening intensity. The sword he had had on him when he woke in the field, almost a month ago. It was of elven-make, but Samwise said it was ancient, unlike any elven blade he had ever seen. So many questions, and no answers. One thing, however, was obvious to him. He had to leave the Shire. This peaceful place, while friendly and homely, held no answers. Sam had told him to travel to Rivendell, a place far away, a place of elves, where he might find the answers he sought.

But even from the fragmented glimpses of memory he snatched from the shadow, he could tell-this world was not the one he knew, or had known. This...Middle-Earth was not his home, not his land. Memories sung to him of a land that Samwise knew nothing of, of a place of utmost beauty, marred by centuries of war.

_Beleriand._

* * *

_Two months later._

The clash of metal rang in the air, and Beren leaped back, ducking swiftly to avoid the swinging arc of the ebony blade. He leaped up, jabbing his sword at Neithan. With near inhuman speed, the other swung to parry, and the blades kissed for a moment as the song of metal against metal rang in the warm afternoon air. Then they parted again as the two men danced away from one another, each circling the other.

They were sparring underneath the mallorn tree in the Party Field. Though only a few years old, it towered over both men, and it kept them in shade from the waning sun as they danced their deadly dance. A small crowd of hobbits had formed to watch, the younger ones oohing and aahing as the two fought back and forth, and the elders muttering amongst themselves.

Beren swung at Neithan, a simple blow to test the other warrior's defenses, but his blow hit empty air. The black-haired man was gone, leaping over Beren's head in a feat of incredible agility, his body twisting and curling as he jumped. His leg swung out, sending Beren staggering backwards. Almost as soon as he landed, Neithan turned into a whirlwind of blows, a spinning cloud from which his black sword darted to be parried-though not effortlessly-by Beren, who was an impressive sight himself, his gleaming elven blade darting to deflect Neithan's blows, his other arm balancing him effortlessly.

With a sudden, brutal movement, Neithan slammed the hilt of his sword into Beren's chest, knocking the wind out of him. Before he could recover, Neithan slammed the flat of the night-black blade against Beren's head, sending him reeling to the ground. Within moments, Neithan was astride him, his sword at the others' throat. Both men were panting, rivulets of swat beading on their foreheads. A slow grin broke across Neithan's face, and he rose up and held a hand out to Beren, who reached out to grasp it. He pulled Beren to his feet and the two grinned at each other.

"You're good." said Beren with a grin.

"I could say the same, and more, about you, One-hand."

Sam melted out of the onlooking crowd of hobbits, which was now beginning to disperse. He carried three large knapsacks, and he nodded to the two to follow him. They sheathed their blades and began to follow him, walking towards the sun as it sank below the hills.

"What're these for, then?" growled Neithan inquisitively as he walked.

"Your journey." Said Sam in a matter-of-fact tone. "Didn't Beren tell you? Y-"

"No, allow me." interrupted Beren. "I know we've been planning a journey for several weeks now, and Sam here was kind enough to arrange things for us. We have enough food and water for the journey to..ah, Bree, was it?" After a deft nod from Sam, he continued. "We'll continue on to Rivendell from there-Sam says there are elves there, elves who may be able to help us."

Pausing, he looked at Neithan. "I'm sorry if this is a bit sudden, I just...I feel confined here. We've been here long enough, we need to find someone who can give us answers, who can-"

"No need to explain." Neithan cut in."I understand. Perfectly." His hand came to rest on the hilt of his black sword, and a troubled look crossed over his face."

They stopped at a small road near the edge of the Shire. It's winding path led far into the distance, stretching into a flat, rolling plain. Sam set the bags on the ground, cleared his throat, and spoke.

"Now, in Bree, talk to Barliman Butterbur or Harvey Gordo-Baggins, at the Prancing Pony. Tell them Samwise sent you, and they should be able to help you get your hands on some horses. In Rivendell, look for Elladan and Elrohir-the Sons of Elrond. They will help, as much as they can."

Neithan had hefted one of the knapsacks onto his back, and Beren was slinging the other over his shoulder as Sam spoke. He hesitated, then moved towards Sam and embraced the Hobbit.

"Thank you. Thank you for everything. The food, the beds-such kindness, for those you don't even know."

Sam nodded and smiled. "Just tryin' ta do right by Master Frodo. But...you're sure you won't stay?"

Both men nodded, though a look of wistfulness crossed Neithan's face. Sam smiled sadly, as if he was accepting a fact.

"Pity. Now y'stay safe. Elanor would be devastated if anything happened to you two." He said with a light grin.

Beren again nodded his assent, and the hobbit turned away and began to walk towards the twinkling lights of the Shire, the dancing flames in the distance. The two Men turned the other way, and began the long trek down the road.


End file.
